The Far Pavilions

by M. M. Kaye

  Having dealt with these matters, Kaka-ji had gone on to confess that he was anxious about his nieces and that it was for this reason, rather than the one he had initially given, that he had agreed at once to send Gobind to Bhithor.

  ‘They have no one there whom they can trust,’ wrote Kaka-ji, ‘or that we here can rely upon to send us truthful reports on their well-being, since Shushila cannot write and we have as yet had no word from her half-sister, which is strange. We have reason to believe that the eunuch who writes on their behalf is untrustworthy, for the few letters we receive say nothing except that they are well and happy, yet we have learned that the dai Geeta, and no less than two of the waiting-women who accompanied them from Karidkote, all of whom were faithful servants and greatly attached to my nieces, are dead, though no mention of this was made in any letter.

  ‘I doubt very much if we should have learned of it at all had not a trader visiting Bhithor heard the tale and repeated it to another in Ajmer, who in turn told it to a man who by chance has a cousin living here in Karidkote. Thus it came to our ears as no more than a traveller's tale, but the families of the three women heard it, and being greatly disturbed they petitioned Jhoti to inquire of his brother-in-law the Rana if it were true. This he did, and after much delay an answer came back to say that the two waiting-women had died of a fever, while the dai had broken her neck falling down a flight of stairs.

  ‘The Rana professed himself astonished to learn that neither the Senior nor the Junior Rani had thought to mention the matter in their letters to their dear brother, and could only suppose that they had not deemed the death of servants to be worthy of being brought to his notice. In which he, the Rana, agreed with them –

  ‘But you and I know,’ wrote Kaka-ji, ‘that had they been free to write as they pleased, they would not have failed to mention it. Therefore I am sure in my own mind that what the eunuch writes are the words of the Rana or the Rana's minions, though it may well be that I am over-anxious and that all is indeed well with them. Nevertheless I would feel easier if I had some way of knowing beyond doubt that this was so, and now it seems as though the gods have provided one. The Rana was pleased with Gobind, who, as you will remember, cured him of boils when his own hakims had failed to do so; and it is certain that he must have been feeling unwell when he permitted Shushila-Bai to ask that Gobind should come with all speed to Bhithor to heal him.

  ‘It is an answer to prayer, as Gobind will be able to learn how it is with Jhoti's sisters, and I have instructed him to devise some method of passing on any news to you, for as you live beyond the borders of Rajasthan, you can send it on in safety to Karidkote. I would not have troubled you with this had I not known that you too would have reason to be concerned over this matter and would wish to satisfy yourself, even as I do, that all is well. If it is not, you will be able to send word to us; and then Jhoti and his advisers will decide on what action they will take.’

  ‘– if any,’ thought Ash grimly. For though the princes still maintained their private armies, ‘the State Forces’, the enormous distance that separated Karidkote from Bhithor was enough to ensure that no military action could be taken by the one against the other, even supposing that the Government of India would have permitted such a thing, which they most certainly would not. Jhoti's only hope would be to lodge a complaint through the proper channels – in this case, the British Resident – from where it would be passed on to the Political Department, who would send to Ajmer, requesting the Agent-to-the-Governor-General to tell the officer in charge of the particular section of Rajputana that included Bhithor to investigate the complaint, and report on it.

  Remembering the dilatoriness and disbelief of the Political Officer, and how impossible it had been to make him think ill of the Rana or take any action that might conceivably be questioned by his superiors in Ajmer, Simla and Calcutta, Ash had little hope that anything useful would come of that. Particularly as there would be no question of the Political Officer (or indeed anyone else) being allowed to see or speak to either of the Rana's wives, who of course kept strict purdah. Any attempt to force such an interview would lead to uproar not only in Bhithor, but throughout India, and the most that would be granted – though even that was unlikely – would be an interview with an unseen woman seated on the far side of a curtain and undoubtedly surrounded by a number of people, all of whom would be in the Rana's pay and would keep a check on every word she said.

  Under such conditions the truth was unlikely to be spoken; nor would there be any proof that the speaker was in fact one of the Ranis and not some carefully coached Zenana woman. All things considered, thought Ash, it was a thousand pities that Jhoti should have chosen to take some silly boy's zid against the Resident in Karidkote…

  He looked up from the letter in his hand, and meeting Gobind's quiet gaze, said, ‘Do you know what is written here?’

  Gobind nodded. ‘The Rao-Sahib did me the honour of reading it to me before he sealed it, so that I should realize how necessary it was to guard it with great care and see that it did not fall into the wrong hands.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ash, and reached for the lamp.

  Held above the glass chimney, the two sheets of thick Indian-made paper blackened and curled and then burst into flame, and Ash turned them this way and that, watching them burn until at length the flames neared his fingers and he dropped the smouldering fragments to the floor, and putting his foot on them, ground them to powder with a vicious twist of his heel.

  ‘There. That has removed at least one of the Rao-Sahib's causes for anxiety. As for the rest, his fears may be well founded, but they come too late. Had he torn up the marriage contracts no one would have blamed him. But he did not do so, and now the-harm is done, for the laws and customs of the land are on the Rana's side – and so too is the Political-Sahib, as we have cause to know.’

  ‘That may be true,’ agreed Gobind quietly. ‘But you are less than just to the Rao-Sahib. Had you known the late Maharajah, you would have realized that the Rao-Sahib had no choice but to do as he did, and see that the marriages were performed.’

  ‘I know,’ admitted Ash with a sharp sigh. ‘I am sorry. I should not have spoken like that. I know very well that in the circumstances he could do nothing else. Besides, it is over, and we cannot alter the past.’

  ‘That even the gods cannot do,’ agreed Gobind soberly. ‘But it is the Rao-Sahib's hope, and mine also, that you and I, Sahib, may perhaps be able to do a little towards shaping the future.’

  There had been no more talk that night, for Gobind was very tired. Neither he nor his servant Manilal had ever been on a train before, and the journey having left them dizzy and exhausted, both were still asleep when Ash left to go on parade the following morning. It was not until the day's work was over and afternoon well advanced that he was able to speak to Gobind again, but as he had slept very little during the previous night, he had been able to give a good deal of thought to Kaka-ji's disclosures and – when this became intolerable because of the fears that it aroused in him for Juli's safety – to more mundane matters such as the arrangements that must be made for getting Gobind safely to Bhithor. These he put in hand first thing in the morning, despatching his head syce, Kulu Ram, to choose and bargain for a pair of horses from a local dealer, and sending a message to Sarji, asking if he knew anyone who would act as a guide for two travellers wishing to go to Bhithor and anxious to leave on the following day.

  The horses and Sarji's reply had been waiting for him on his return to the bungalow, and both had proved equally satisfactory: Sarji wrote that he was sending his own particular shikari, Bukta (a hunter who knew every path, game-track and short-cut through the hills), to guide Ash's friends to Bhithor, while the horses that Kulu Ram had purchased were sturdy and reliable animals, sound in wind and limb and capable, said Kulu Ram, of covering as many koss a day as the Hakim-Sahib required of them.

  There remained only one other matter to be settled, the most important of all: how to estab
lish some method of communication between Gobind in Bhithor and Ash in Ahmadabad without arousing the suspicions of the Rana.

  The two had discussed this for hours, riding side by side along the river bank, ostensibly to try out the newly purchased horses but in reality to ensure against being overheard; and later they had talked together in Ash's bedroom until well after midnight, their voices so low that Gul Baz, who had been stationed on the verandah outside to warn off intruders, was barely able to catch more than a faint murmur of sound.

  Time was short and there was much that had to be done. A code of some sort was essential if they were to communicate at all – something simple enough to be memorized and that would arouse no suspicions in the event of a message being intercepted – and when they had worked that out to their satisfaction they had to consider ways and means of getting news out of Bhithor, because if the Rana had anything to hide he would certainly see to it that Gobind was closely watched. That problem, however, would have to be solved by Gobind alone, and then only after he had arrived in Bhithor and was able to assess the situation there and discover how much freedom, if any, he would be allowed. Yet plans must still be made, for even if the majority of them proved on his arrival to be impracticable, one at least might work.

  ‘There is also my servant, Manilal,’ said Gobind, ‘who on account of his speech and appearance is taken to be a simpleton: a foolish yokel, incapable of guile – which is far from the truth. I think we may well find a use for him.’

  By the time the clock struck twelve they had discussed at least a dozen plans, one of which resulted in Gobind setting off at nine o'clock on the following morning in search of a certain European-owned shop in the city, because as he had said, ‘If the worst comes to the worst I can always say that I must go to Ahmadabad for more drugs with which to treat His Highness. Is there a good dewai dukan (medicine shop) in this city? A foreign one, for choice?’

  ‘There is one in the cantonments: Jobbling & Sons, the Chemists, where all the Sahibs and memsahibs buy their tooth powder and hair-lotions and many patent medicines from Belait. You should be able to get any dewai you want there. But the Rana will never let you return here to fetch anything yourself.’

  ‘Maybe not. But whoever is sent here will have to bring with them a piece of paper on which I will have written down the drugs I require. Therefore tomorrow I will visit this chemist and make inquiries as to what medicines they sell, and also try if I cannot get on good terms with the shopkeeper.’

  He had left for Bhithor shortly after mid-day, taking with him an assortment of pills and potions that he had bought earlier on the advice of Mr Pereiras, the Eurasian manager of Jobbling & Sons' Ahmadabad branch, with whom he had soon come to a friendly understanding. Ash had returned from the lines in time to see him off, and the two had conferred briefly on the verandah before Gobind and Manilal, accompanied by Sarji's shikari, Bukta, who was to guide them to Bhithor by way of Palanpore and the foothills below Mount Abu, rode away from the bungalow and were lost to view among the flame-trees that lined the long cantonment road.

  Ten days later Sarji sent word that the shikari was back, having led the Hakim and his servant to within a mile of the frontier of Bhithor. The Hakim had rewarded Bukta liberally for his services and sent a verbal message to Pelham-Sahib to the effect that he would pray daily that the Sahib would be blessed by health and good fortune and that all things would go smoothly in the months ahead. A pious hope that needed no decoding.

  As the days became hotter, Ash rose earlier and earlier of a morning so that he could take Dagobaz out for an hour or two before the routine of Stables; and now that the seasonal training was over, there was more office work. His evenings were usually taken up with polo practice, for the game that had been a new one on the Frontier when he first joined the Guides had spread like wild-fire, until now even cavalry regiments in the south had taken it up, and Ash, having played it before, was much in demand.

  His days were therefore fully occupied, which was a godsend to him; though he did not see it like that, and probably would not have admitted it if he had. But at least it prevented him from thinking too much about what might be happening to Juli, and made him tired enough to sleep at night instead of driving himself to the verge of mental exhaustion by lying awake brooding and worrying about the information in Kaka-ji's letter, and its possible implications. Hard work and violent exercise were an anodyne, and one that he should have been grateful for.

  Mahdoo wrote by the hand of a bazaar letter-writer to say that he had arrived safely and was pleased to be back in Mansera once more. He was in good health and hoped that Ash was too, and that Gul Baz was looking after him properly. His entire family (there were now three more great-grandchildren, two of them boys) sent their earnest wishes for his continued health, happiness and prosperity – etc., etc….

  Ash replied to this, but did not mention Gobind's visit. And curiously enough, neither did Gul Baz when he wrote as promised to give the old man the latest news of Pelham-Sahib and his household, and to assure Mahdoo that they were all keeping well. Though as far as Gul Baz was concerned his silence on that particular point was purely a matter of instinct, since neither Ash nor Gobind had suggested that it might be wiser not to talk of it. But then he too was worried.

  Gul Baz, like Mahdoo, had a healthy distrust of Bhithor, and no wish to see the Sahib involved once again in anything whatever to do with that law-ess and sinister state or its unprincipled ruler. Yet this, he feared, was what the Hakim from Karidkote was striving to do – though why, and in what way, was more than he could guess (Gul Baz knew a great deal less about Ash than Mahdoo did, and that wise old man had taken care to keep certain of his suspicions to himself).

  The anxiety that Gobind's unheralded arrival had aroused in him should, by rights, have subsided with that gentleman's departure. But it had not done so, for Gul Baz noticed that after that the Sahib took to making many small purchases at an Angrezi-owned pharmacy, the same shop, by a coincidence – or was it a coincidence? – that the Hakim had patronized on his last morning, and where, according to the driver of the hired tonga that had taken him there (a chatty individual whom Gul Baz had later questioned), he had spent over half an hour in consultation with the shopkeeper, and eventually bought an assortment of foreign nostrums.

  By itself, there was nothing strange in that, it being no secret that the Hakim had been sent for to treat the Rana of Bhithor, whom he had once cured of a painful affliction and who therefore had great faith in his powers. Yet why should the Sahib, whose health was excellent, now take to shopping there as often as three or four times a week, when previously he had always left it to Gul Baz to keep him supplied with soap and tooth powder and such things?

  Gul Baz did not like it. But there was nothing he could do about it and no one with whom he cared to discuss it. He could only keep his own counsel and hope against hope that an order would soon come from Mardan, summoning the Sahib back to the Guides and the North-West Frontier, for now he too was eager to be away, and hungry for the sight of his own Border-country and the speech of his own people.

  Ash, on the other hand – who only a short while ago had been equally impatient to see the last of Gujerat – was suddenly afraid of having to leave it, because if he were to be recalled to Mardan before Gobind managed to smuggle out some news from Bhithor, he might never know what had happened there, or be able to send on a message to Kaka-ji, or do anything to help.

  The very thought was so intolerable that at this juncture he would actually have been relieved to hear that he must serve another five years in Gujerat; or even ten or twenty, for to leave now could mean deserting Juli just when she might need help more than she had ever needed it before, and at a time when her very life might depend on his presence here in Ahmadabad, and his willingness to do anything he could to help her.

  He had deserted her twice before: once in Gulkote when she was a child, and again in Bhithor – though that had been sorely against his will. He wo
uld not do so a third time. Yet if he was ordered back to Mardan, what then? Would it do any good if he were to write to Wally and Wigram Battye, asking them to use their influence to get his recall postponed if they should hear that it was being considered? But then, having told both of them how much he wanted to get back to the Guides, how did he propose to explain this abrupt volte face…? ‘I'm sorry I can't tell you why I've changed my mind and would rather not come back to the Corps just now, but you'll just have to take my word for it that it's vitally important that I should be able to remain here for the time being –’

  They would think he must be ill or mad, and Wally, at least, would expect to be trusted with the truth. But as the truth could not be told there was no point in writing at all.

  Ash fell back on hope. With luck the ‘Tin Gods’ who had banished him to Gujerat had forgotten about him and would leave him alone. Or better still, Gobind would manage to get in touch with him and tell him that their fears were groundless and that all was well with the Ranis of Bhithor, in which case it would not matter how soon he was recalled to the Guides. The sooner the better in fact, for Wally's last letter had increased his longing to get back almost as much as Kaka-ji's letter had made him wish to stay.

  Wally wrote to say that the Guides had been in action again, and that Zarin had been wounded, though not seriously. The letter gave a detailed description of the affray (which involved a gang of Utman Khel tribesmen who two years previously had murdered a number of coolies working on the Swat River canal-works), and sang the praises of its instigator, one Captain Cavagnari, Deputy Commissioner of Peshawar, who having heard that the leader and several members of the gang were living in a village called Sapri some five miles upstream from Fort Abazai and just inside the Utman Khel border, sent a message to the village headman demanding their surrender, together with a large sum of money to furnish pensions for the families of the murdered coolies.